Paradox-Pendulum
by VictorVictoria
Summary: Nearly fifty years have passed since Cassandra Fisher became a spirit. Times have changed, old allies are gone, but little else has happened to affect the spirit world. She aims to rectify that, no matter how many enemies (or reluctant allies) she makes along the way. Power is a wonderful thing, but it is a pendulum that never stops swinging.
1. Debts

Author's note:

Well I'm not dead. That's always good news, right? *awkward glances*

So it's been a long, _long_ time since I last uploaded anything. …Yeah… Part of the reason for that is because life happened, and is still happening, which unfortunately means that this time around I cannot guarantee any sort of schedule to my updates. I apologize for that in advance, and ask you to please stick around even if it seems like I've dropped off the face of the earth again. I'll do my utmost to crank this out before the end of the century, I promise. :)

The other reason why I haven't written in a while is…well…I had a bit of a writer's worst nightmare. The last thing I posted was one of my _Starfire_ one-shots. Now I understand that it's rated M and quite dark, not everyone's cup of tea, and I respect that. But what I didn't expect was to have almost nobody read it. Every writer has a slump, but after working on that piece for two weeks straight only to have hardly anyone care to read it sorta sucked the wind out of my sails. Took a while for me to get it back, but I'm ready to try again and see what happens.

Couple of tidbits: this will probably stay T rated, though the genres might be tweaked as I go. I will let you know if/when it happens. Also this is a sequel, so you most definitely need to read _Paradox_ in order to get anything that's going on. There will be one or two minor references to events that took place in _The Art of Obsession_ but it is not strictly necessary to read that in order to get this.

Hope you enjoy. :)

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Rise of the Guardians._ I just play with it whenever the inspiration stick strikes me.

* * *

"Thank Manny you've come," North huffed. He looked positively dreadful, his clothes saturated with sweat, face drawn and bearing dark circles under the eyes while his hair and beard looked as if they had not been washed or combed in quite some time. There was a layer of fine sawdust across his chest and shoulders, and paint of various colors smeared on his hands and dripped onto his boots.

"What's happened?" Jack asked, panic rising as his gaze darted wildly around the room. As if North's current appearance was not bad enough, the workshop was almost deathly quiet. There was none of the usual banging and clanging of toymaking, rumbling and rustling and whirring of test runs, or grumbling calls of the yetis. In fact, there was not a single yeti in sight, not even Jack's best frenemy, Phil. A few elves were tottering about, but of course they were absolutely useless. One actually looked as if he had recently upended an entire vat of snow globe liquid on himself, and seemed immensely proud of his drenched-yet-glittering self.

Wrenching his gaze from the rather disturbing image of an elf posing for several admiring (borderline starstruck) fellows, Jack inquired of the Russian, "Where's all the yetis?"

"Sick," North cried, his voice picking up volume with every word he spoke. "First one! Then four! More and more until there's only me! So much work to do and Christmas is only two weeks away!"

Massive hands lashed out and grabbed Jack by the shoulders. "Please help me!" the big man wailed, tears of exhausted desperation pouring freely down his face.

"There, there, mate," Bunny said, patting North a bit awkwardly on the shoulder. None of them had ever seen North break down so completely before; then again, the yetis had never gotten sick before either. "We've got time. Don't forget—we gathered Tooth's chompers and painted all my googies in a single night before."

"In the same weekend," Jack chimed in while Sandy nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Looks like the big lads managed a good lot of it, shouldn't be too hard to finish off," Bunny went on. "We'll have ya up an' running in time, don't you worry."

"Thank you," a relieved North sniffed. Jack saw what was coming and tried to escape, but not quite fast enough. Just as his toes left the ground he was pulled into a bone crushing hug. "Thank you!" the big man repeated while Jack let out a pathetic squeak.

The first few nights were a flurry of activity, all of the Guardians riding the adrenaline as they fought to beat the deadline. With thousands of believers at stake they could not afford to mess this up and ruin Christmas. After a while though they began to take shifts, Jack and Bunnymund working together while the other three slept, then trading off. Tooth pulled every last fairy she could spare off tooth-collecting duty, the girls carrying paintbrushes and fetching extra bolts or tools so the Guardians could concentrate on production. It was hard, grueling work, if only because of how few of them there were compared to the number of yetis North typically had in the shop, but not one of them complained. It wasn't as if the big man had planned this.

Which begged the question: why had the yetis fallen ill? The burly beings hardly caught so much as sniffle, let alone anything bad enough to put them off toy-making duty. And so close to Christmas too…the timing was just too horrible to be coincidental, that much Jack and Bunnymund could agree upon. Yet when they mentioned their concerns to Tooth and Sandy later on, the Guardians of Memories and Dreams hesitated.

"I agree it is most strange," Tooth murmured, casting worried glances at North's back, though the Guardian of Wonder was too engrossed in adding delicate stitching to a doll he was making to pay them any mind. "But it's not as if anyone could have done this. Protections here are sufficient enough to keep even Jack out for hundreds of years, and to get only the yetis sick, not North or any of the elves…"

"Pitch used to get in just fine," Bunny gruffly pointed out.

 _Pitch is gone,_ Sandy reminded him with his sand symbols.

"Yeah, I know, mate, I was just saying—"

"Maybe the elves did something thinking they were being helpful," Jack suggested as he kicked one of said creatures away before it could paint his toenails purple with a brush that was much too large. "Accidentally poisoned their food or something."

No matter how much they picked the issue apart, they couldn't come up with anything plausible. Bunnymund even went so far as to check in with the yetis a couple of times, the Pooka being one of the most knowledgeable in the group about herbal remedies and plant-based medicines, but even that didn't turn up any clues. Like North, Bunny was stumped. The yetis were clearly ill, but nothing either of them tried seemed help; in fact, over the course of their stay, the Guardians realized their health was steadily declining.

"Was surprised at first," North admitted to Sandy at one point. The Russian spoke quietly, an oddity for him, but he had been rather subdued in general over the past few days, worry for his helpers eating away at him. "Yetis never get sick. But I thought 'always a first for everything, no problem, more than enough hands to help'."

He shook his head sadly as he secured the last few screws into the rocking horse he had built. "More and more get sick. Medicines do nothing, and I cannot search in library for answers with Christmas coming."

"Have you asked Angiti to help?" Tooth inquired. The spirit of healing was a longtime friend of the Guardians and would not hesitate to come to their aid.

"Could not leave to find her," North said, moving the rocking horse off the workbench to make room for the next one.

Stirring in the corner where he had laid down to rest, Bunny offered sleepily, "I can go fetch her."

Sandy banged a hammer on his own workbench to get their attention. _Christmas first,_ he told them. _Then yetis. It is what they would want._

"Of course, Sandy," North said, jerking his head in a nod, and the others had to agree with him.

In the end they managed to get everything finished in time. Packaging and packing all the presents into the giant red sack turned out to be almost as big of a chore as making them, though Jack found a way to speed things along with his wind and ice powers (even if Bunny did complain loudly over paint getting chipped and wood being dented with all the "unceremonious handling"). Preparing and harnessing the reindeer was also a chore-and-a-half, though Tooth quickly discovered that bribing them with treats worked wonders on their disposition. She accompanied North on Christmas Eve as emotional support, leaving Jack and Bunnymund to clean up the veritable dump the Pole had become while Sandy flew off to try and dig up Angiti.

When North returned, flushed with success, at dawn on Christmas Day it was to discover Angiti already at the Pole. Sandy had managed to find her. Utterly exhausted yet desperate for news, he stowed the sleigh quickly before hurrying to her side, hope swelling within him. Bunny actually flinched when he felt that hope get dashed as Angiti said in her whispery voice, "I am sorry, friend North. They are fading fast and I do not know what ails them. I have not seen anything like it before."

"You don't have any ideas?" Jack asked, clutching at North's sleeve in an effort to comfort and steady the big man. " _Anything_?"

Angiti bit her lip.

"Please," North said, tears gathering in his eyes. "Anything to help. Please tell me."

Angiti took a breath, "I am but a healer. Though I consider myself wise to innumerable ailments, microorganisms continuously mutate and transform, forcing me to alter my skill and knowledge in order to accommodate. As it stands now I would determine the cause of their suffering eventually, but your yetis do not have that sort of time. You need to bring someone here who can identify the cause of their illness swiftly."

"Giving you time to concoct a cure," Bunny concluded. Angiti nodded to him in confirmation, but Jack wasn't at all thrilled by the news.

"Someone who can immediately identify illnesses?" he said, wholly unable to stop the disdain creeping into his voice. "Sounds like a dark spirit to me."

Grim-faced, Sandy shaped a single sand figure over his head: _Morsoi._

"You cannot bring Morsoi here, his presence alone is likely to kill them," Bunny cried, fists clenched at his sides.

"No one else is as knowledgeable as he," Angiti countered. "I am sorry, Guardians. I know you do not like or trust Morsoi but you need him now. No other spirit will be able to identify the cause of the sickness."

"Probably because _he_ caused it!"

Angiti stiffened.

"Have care not to throw hasty accusations," she warned sternly. "Or have you forgotten?"

She jerked her chin towards the banisters near the far corner of the room. Bunny glanced around and promptly flinched. One of Issitoq's Eyes was seated up there, watching them.

"Were there any evidence to support your claim I would most certainly understand, but there is none," Angiti went on. "Had there been, friend North would have had just cause to file grievance, thereby forcing Morsoi to rescind his plague. Besides," she reached out to lay a hand on North's forearm, drawing the big man's attention off the floor and back to her, "I can personally guarantee that Morsoi has been in southeast Asia for the past eight months. If I have to overhear one more human say "bird flu" or "swine flu" I might just vomit."

Shoulders slumped in defeat, North said quietly, "He will not help for free."

"Such is merely the nature of our world—nothing is freely given or taken, except perhaps among closest friends," she added with a small smile.

"Call for him." Straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, North said decisively, "Call for Morsoi."

"No need for a summons, I am already present."

The unexpected answer startled the lot of them.

"Morsoi!" Bunny snarled, having jumped more noticeably than the others (a consequence of his Pooka instincts) and taking great exception to the unintended display of weakness. "How the bloody—"

"Language, Aster," Morsoi chided as he sauntered towards them. With his hands clasped behind his back and an expression of mild interest on his face he looked utterly relaxed, quite unlike the overworked, worry-weary Guardians.

"He's not a child, he can talk however he wants," Jack snapped, jumping to his friend's defense.

"How did you know to come here?" Tooth demanded at nearly the exact same time.

Ignoring Jack, Morsoi answered, "A little birdie told me." He then chuckled quietly to himself, as if at a private joke. "No, that is not entirely correct. A little birdie was twittering in a most distressed manner, catching the interest of one of my sprites. It then dutifully informed me of your…predicament and I surmised that my aptitudes would be needed. It is good to see I was not mistaken—time really is of the essence with this sort of thing."

He stopped a short distance from the Guardians, surveying them with almost disturbing calm.

"I am surprised you have not lost any of your pets yet, North," he continued. "They are rather the worse for wear."

"Just hurry up and tell us what's wrong with 'em so we can help 'em!" Bunny barked, his accent growing noticeably thicker in his agitation.

"In good time. After all, North and I need to have an important discussion first, don't we?"

Green-tinged eyes fixed upon North, who looked vaguely ill.

"What do you want?" the Guardian of Wonder asked gruffly.

"That depends on what _you_ want. What exactly is it you wish me to do?"

"Tell me what is ailing my yetis."

"Hmm. That would directly lead to their lives being saved, wouldn't it? Which in turn means you will be spared the imminent loss of your believers which, again in turn, means saving your existence."

"Quit thinking so much into it!" Bunny started to shout only to be cut off by North.

"Be quiet Bunny."

Morsoi's serene smile turned feral. "Well, at least one of you knows what is at stake here. So…my demands should not come as a big shock to you."

The Guardians all visibly tensed, waiting for the foul spirit to name his price.

"I would ask of you a service, dearest North."

North jerked, a frown pulling his bushy brows together. "Service?"

"Oh yes. If I do this thing for you, in return you shall do something for me. You will come to me whenever I may call for you, and you will do as I ask to the absolute best of your ability without complaint."

"I will not harm children, or the other Guardians," North said hastily, chest puffing up as he squared off with Morsoi.

"No, no, I will not ask you to do something as mundane as that," the spirit of pestilence reassured him smoothly, completely unaffected by the big man's posturing. "So do we have an accord?"

North hesitated for a good long while, mulling it all over in his head.

"Don't do it," Bunny whispered, boomerang clutched tight in his paw. "I don't know what the ratbag's up to, but I don't like it."

"We need him to help the yetis, and he said he won't ask him to harm the children or any of us. Issitoq will hold him to that promise," Tooth countered just as quietly, though she looked no more pleased with the situation than Bunny.

In the end, North jerked his head in a nod. "I will do it. I will owe you _one_ service, so long as it doesn't involve harming my fellow Guardians or any children, if you help me save my yetis."

Morsois' eyes burned pure green as he leered, "Excellent."

* * *

True to his word, Morsoi told Angiti what was ailing the yetis. In under a week she had concocted a solution and they were all on the mend. It would take time, and lots of it, before Phil and his cohorts were in any position to keep Jack out of mischief at the Pole, but Angiti was adamant they would all fully recover.

Unfortunately, the Guardians' relief was short-lived. Angiti had scarcely given the all-clear when Toothiana zoomed into the Pole on a whirr of wings.

"Help!" she cried, grabbing the spirit of healing by the front of her robes. "Help please! My fairies!"

The situation at the Tooth Palace turned out to be so much worse than what had happened to North. Unlike the yetis, who fell ill over the course of several weeks, the fairies were deteriorating so rapidly they were quite literally dropping from the sky. Worse, their wings were turning dry and brittle; one wrong touch snapped them right off, much to the Guardians' horror. With North unable to leave the Pole with his yetis still recovering and Bunnymund nowhere to be found, Jack and Sandy had to go on collection duty not just for teeth, but for fairies who'd collapsed during a run and could no longer summon the strength to return home. Angiti tried everything, including the cure she'd used on North's yetis, to no avail.

" _Please_!" Tooth wailed as more and more fairies dropped to the platform around her. Her hands were already full, she could not carry anymore. "Please help them!"

"I do not know what is wrong!" Angiti admitted with a despondent cry. One pale hand tore at her own robes while the other clutched a stricken fairy to her chest, helpless to do anything else. Healing was her center yet she had been confounded twice in less than a fortnight, shattering her confidence. It would be many decades before she properly got it back.

Something caught Toothiana's eye just then, lingering outside the mountain palace. Expression grim yet determined, the queen of fairies carefully lay her little charges down before zooming off to confront it.

When Jack saw what had caught her eye, he was quick to shout, "Tooth, no!"

But it was too late.

"Go to Morsoi!" he heard her yell to the skulking sprite. "Go to your master and tell him to come here! I will owe him a service with the same stipulations as North if he helps my girls!"

"Where's Bunny?" Jack ground out from between clenched teeth. The Pooka knew medicine, too, perhaps he could think of something Angiti hadn't. It was a long shot, especially since Bunny hadn't been able to help with the yetis, but it was better than leaving Tooth to the mercy of Morsoi's whims.

Sandy shook his head. He didn't know anything more about Bunnymund's mysterious absence than Jack did. Uttering a frustrated sound, Jack hoisted up his staff.

"Don't let Morsoi take advantage of her," he instructed before blasting off on a burst of wind, careful not to catch any fairies in the crossfire.

He sped to the Warren as fast as he could, landing heavily in the open meadows of the Pooka's realm.

"Bunny!" he bellowed. "Bunny! Where the hell are you?! Tooth's fairies are sick!"

Upon receiving no response, Jack flew to the Pooka's home and banged on the door. "Bunny?! Bunny! Dammit, Bunny, I swear if you're just hibernating in there I will frost over every last one of your dye pools!"

Still no response. Grabbing the handle, Jack actually jerked in surprise when it turned unexpectedly. The Pooka was home?! What the hell was he—?

As soon as the door opened Jack was hit full in the face with the most noxious smell he had ever experienced. It was so rancid he had to lift the front of his blue hoodie over his nose lest he puke right then and there.

"Bunny?" he called again, anger vanished in an instant to be replaced by a very real fear. "You okay?"

He flitted through the house, following the smell, which grew stronger as he approached the Pooka's room. Finding the door ajar, Jack slowly pushed it open, terrified by what he might find.

"Bunny!"

He flew straight to his friend's side, dropping to his knees and releasing his staff so it clattered to the floor. The Pooka was an absolute mess. Curled up on his side, he shook so badly Jack initially worried he was having a seizure. His fur had fallen out in large tufts, leaving great bald patches that had been scratched raw and bloody by his own claws. The smell was coming from a mixture of bodily fluids, primarily sweat and vomit, for even as Jack reached out to put his hands on Bunny's shoulder the Pooka retched with a horrid gagging sound, spilling foul yellow-green bile across his already sodden bedding. There were a large number of jars and pots lying scattered around the room, particularly around the bed, and Jack's heart seized painfully when he realized Bunnymund must've tried to take care of himself only to discover nothing worked.

Just like with the yetis and fairies.

"What is happening?" he whispered in horror as Bunny vomited again. "What the hell is happening to everyone?"

"You should have stayed away."

Jack nearly leapt into the air, his heart taking flight instead to hammer away inside his throat. Morsoi stood in the Pooka's bedroom doorway, looking utterly unphased by the wretched sight laid out before him.

Too tired and distraught to summon his anger (the only proper emotion when dealing with Morsoi, in his opinion) all Jack managed to utter in response was a pathetic, "What?"

"Epidemics, even minor ones, are quite volatile in nature; microbes spread quickly and can alter their physiology most rapidly given the right environment. Even humans know that something as simple as a cold or flu has the potential to turn deadly, to say nothing of what an unknown strain can do."

"What are you saying?" Jack asked weakly as Bunny moaned. His hands were still holding the quivering Pooka's shoulders, to offer comfort if nothing else, to let Bunny know he was no longer alone. "Is Bunny gonna be alright? The fairies—"

"I am saying that you Guardians are fools. You all rushed to the Pole without taking proper precautions. Now you are suffering the consequences."

"You…you mean Bunny and the fairies caught what the yetis had? So why are they so much worse? How come Angiti cannot heal them?"

"As I said—diseases are volatile. Do not make me repeat myself, I find it tedious."

Jack stared and stared at him, his overwhelmed and overtired brain struggling to figure out what to do. His body ran too cold to fall ill except under extreme circumstances, and Sandy was pretty much safe given the nature of his own physical form, but how long would Tooth and North be okay given how immersed they were in their helpers' healing? And Bunny needed help _now_ , the poor Pooka was going to die if Jack didn't do something.

"Help him," Jack whispered, the words barely audible even to his own ears. That would not do, he could not help anyone hesitating like this. Squaring his jaw, he lifted his head to fix ice blue eyes upon Morsoi as he repeated louder and more firmly, "Help Bunny, and put a stop to this sickness. Make sure it does not remain contagious any longer."

"Do you know what you are asking?" Morsoi inquired in a tone that was carefully neutral save for the slightest hint of curiosity, which may or may not have been genuine.

Jack glared at him. "Yes. I am asking you to save my friend, and to prevent any others from falling victim to this." His eyes narrowed. "I am prepared to accept whatever price you demand of me," he growled, "provided you do not ask me to harm children or my friends."

Morsoi stood still as a statue for a very, _very_ long time. Not a hair on his head moved. He did not even blink. Jack grew increasingly disconcerted the longer the moment stretched—the bastard was cunning, for him to be that lost in thought couldn't be a good sign—yet he did not move or speak save to shush Bunny quietly, comfortingly, when the Pooka moaned again, because he knew there was no other way to fix this.

Bunny would be furious with him later, but Jack was willing to accept that.

Finally, at long last, Morsoi moved. His lips curled upward at the corners, a tiny dark smile that accentuated the acid green cutting through the gray of his eyes, making him appear even creepier than usual.

"For my help with Aster I will ask a service of you, Jack Frost, just as I have North and Toothiana. You will come when I call and complete the designated task, regardless of what it may be, without complaint and to the best of your ability."

Jack jerked his head in a nod, accepting the terms.

"But to stop a plague from running its course… What you are asking of me in this is to sacrifice whatever power I stand to glean. Considering the extreme nature of this particular strain," Morsoi's attention fastened briefly upon Bunny's quivering form, "I imagine it would be rather a lot. Just standing here in this Warren I can feel—"

"Enough," Jack barked. He was not about to sit there and listen to Morsoi brag. "What do you demand?"

Gray and green eyes returned to the frost spirit's face.

"I want your power."

"What?"

"Your power, little frost spirit. In addition to the previously established service, I will ask you to loan your power to me. Not that I will take it for myself," he said smoothly when Jack bristled. "I would never want such mundane abilities as my own. No. Rather what I will ask is for you to use your power at my direction, without question, to assist me in one task."

Jack frowned in confusion. "I already promised you a service. Are you asking for a second?"

Morsoi smirked. "In a manner of speaking."

"I kinda need more details than that," Jack groused.

"No you do not. You do not need to understand now, because I am not asking you to fulfill your promise now. But you will understand in time, I guarantee that."

Jack mulled it over, ever cognizant of the shivering Pooka under his hands. He didn't like how ambiguous Morsoi was being right now— _hated_ it, in fact—but it did sound an awful lot like the wretched bastard was merely asking another service from him, one where he would have to use his power rather than his…charm or influence as a Guardian or whatever else Morsoi might need. Jack could do that. No doubt Morsoi would find a way to make fulfilling his end of the bargain humiliating and distasteful, but it was a small price to pay in exchange for saving lives.

"I will not harm any children or the other Guardians with my power," Jack said carefully. "If you can accept that then I will agree to your terms."

Little did he know how very deeply he would come to regret his decision.

* * *

The forest was deathly quiet—humans from the nearby town never ventured there after sundown (too many stories of shadows moving freely and inexplicable noises echoing through the trees); spirits had long learned to avoid the area entirely (for fear of stoking the wrath of the resident spirit, who was intensely private); and, on this particular night, nocturnal animals fled _en masse_ before the approach of an intruder who stank of death and dust and rot, virtually emptying the land for acres around.

Morsoi scarcely noticed. He much preferred being alone whenever he came here anyway. Even his sprites were left behind, lingering on the outskirts of town at his direction; close enough to be at hand should he call for them, far enough away to avoid stoking her ire.

 _The things I do for you._

Morsoi smiled when he saw the entrance to her realm was open. He knew for a fact that she kept it sealed to everyone else, a cap of shadow and black sand so thick it was solid to the touch. Only for him did it open freely, without his having to request an audience.

She trusted him. A fact which caused some as-yet unidentified emotion to burn hot inside him, more powerful than mere satisfaction yet far from the smug delight he would have felt were she any other spirit.

It did not necessarily mean anything, of course, her opening her realm to him. Given how much… _interest_ he had shown over the past few years she had undoubtedly figured out that the last thing he wanted was to hurt or destroy her. It could be she was simply taking advantage of that, though he doubted it. She had nothing to gain by demonstrating how unafraid she was, for even as a human she had not feared him, and if there was one thing Cassandra Fisher did not do it was go out of her way to prove herself to anyone. One either accepted her as she was or they did not, and woe to those who didn't.

Savaş—or, rather, the pathetic remains of him—were proof of that.

Morsoi slipped easily into the underground realm, traversing the dark halls without interruption. There were Nightmares everywhere, lurking in the shadows watching his every move, but none tried to stop him so he paid them no mind. They, like his sprites, were loyal to the utmost and did as they were told, and they had been told not to interfere with his comings and goings unless he became a threat.

 _The things you do for me…_

He found her ensconced in her study, a private place at the very back of her realm. One wall bore a series of maps dotted with pins and pen markings of various colors that only Cassandra could interpret, while the opposite wall was lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Knowledge was power, particularly among spirits, and Cassandra had not wasted time amassing all the tomes and scrolls she could get her hands on. Morsoi (and a good many others) respected her for that. All too often spirits failed to take interest in anything outside their own existence and duties, placing themselves at significant disadvantage; or they were like North, who hoarded vast libraries of knowledge and showed them off proudly but rarely, if ever, did anything with them.

Which was why Morsoi had taken to "borrowing" items of interest and surreptitiously adding them to Cassandra's collection. She could—and would—use them more often than anyone else, and it both intrigued and excited him to know that Cassandra was well aware of what he was doing, had been for quite some time, yet made no mention of it. Such pointed silence was a significant indicator that deep down inside the spirit of fear was not nearly as opposed to his advances as she pretended to be. Returning the books and scrolls to their rightful owners or otherwise demanding to repay him for them was all it would take to communicate her rejection. By doing neither she only encouraged him to continue, which Morsoi did happily.

That she refused to speak of what he was doing made no difference; leaving so much unsaid only added to the thrill.

A heavy wooden desk stood against the far wall, half-buried in books and papers. Cassandra sat with her back to him, bent over her work as her pen scratched quietly against the page. Morsoi knew she could sense his presence just as he had been able to sense hers, though she made no acknowledgement of his arrival. She did not pause even when he came to a stop just behind her chair, looking at her rather than at whatever currently occupied her attention. Her hair was tied back tonight, giving him ample view of her pale neck and jaw. He studied them carefully, memorizing every detail, down to the delicate veins barely visible beneath the skin.

He wondered, vaguely, a passing notion, what it would taste like.

In time she finished and set down her pen.

"Morsoi," she said, cool and collected.

"Cassandra." Anticipation bubbled through him, just as it always did whenever he approached her for this reason. "I have a gift for you. Do you accept?"


	2. Offering

Author's note:

Hey everyone, chapter 2 is here! I appreciate your patience and hope you find it worthwhile.

A very special thank you to everyone who reviewed, it is always wonderful to get positive feedback. :) **PaperGirlI** **nAPaperTown** to answer your question: Savas was the spirit of war introduced eons ago in _Paradox._ He did not like Cassandra, and she did not like him. In _The Art of Obsession_ it was mentioned that he picked a fight with Cassandra late one night, realized he was about to lose and subsequently tried to flee only to have Morsoi kill him. (Morsoi then offered her Savas' head, symbolizing that the kill was a gift to her, which she refused). I'm glad you like Morsoi, he is fun to write even though he is a creeper. He's only going to get worse, I'm afraid, so head's up.

Mild language in this chapter, just FYI.

Enjoy all! :D

* * *

It took a fair amount of effort to restrain the urge to sigh. "Do you ever tire of asking that question?" she asked.

"No."

Giving in to the urge this time, Cassandra sighed quietly through her nose before turning in her chair to look at Morsoi. "I cannot imagine what it could be. Pretty hard to top your last offer."

"One would think so," Morsoi said even as his smile turned smug.

The false humility made her upper lip curl. Decades of coexistence with other spirits (aka dealing with their various—and ofttimes numerous—idiosyncrasies) had curbed much of her irritation at their borderline narcissistic tendencies. You simply couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, regardless of how many times you whacked it round the head, so what was the point of wasting time and energy focusing on its shortcomings? However, if there was one thing on this earth that would forever succeed in aggravating her, it was Morsoi. The spirit of pestilence and plague had a bad habit of seeking out and plucking at her nerves, aggravating her _just so_ in order to see how she'd react…sort of like poking an animal over and over and over again to see how far it could be pushed before it snapped.

He found it amusing, amongst other things best left unexamined and unnamed. Frankly she could do without it.

"When will you understand that you do not possess anything I want?" she asked frostily, turning her back to him once more.

His response was smooth, polite, completely unruffled by the rather unsubtle dismissal. "I understood a long time ago. I also understood that just because I do not possess anything you want _now_ does not mean I never shall, which is why I went out of my way to gather these for you."

"'These'? So it's a collection, then, this time?"

"Parts of a whole, you could say. To be combined or divided as you see fit."

"And you think this malleability will please me?"

"Yes, because it will help you get what you want."

"You have no idea what I want."

"I do."

He sounded so certain. Cassandra frowned, interest and curiosity peaked despite herself. Shifting in her chair again, she looked into his eyes. They were more gray than green tonight, the latter color reduced to little more than faint ribbons which shimmered as they caught and reflected pale candlelight.

"Well?" she asked tersely after the moment stretched just a hair too long. "What is it you believe I want?"

"Power."

Like a balloon pierced, all curiosity fled in a sudden rush. Planting her palms upon the desktop, Cassandra stood.

"It would seem you understand far less than you think," she said coolly, brushing past him to stride down the dark corridor. Faint footsteps signaled Morsoi's pursuit.

"Perhaps I misspoke," he said, walking swiftly in order to keep up, "or simply did not explain myself clearly. I oft forget that stating one desires power without proper explanation tends to carry many negative connotations."

"Try not to forget in the future. You may just insult the wrong person…or start a war," Cassandra warned in a tone as dry as the desert.

"Hmm. Indeed," Morsoi acknowledged, equal parts silky and sly. "We would not want that, now, would we?"

"Not if I'm caught in the middle."

"As if you ever could be, isolated as you are."

Cassandra snorted. There was no way he genuinely believed that, not after Savaş and so many others tried to pick fights with her over the years. The sound echoed obscenely off stone walls, swiftly followed by warning cries from her mares.

 _Don't listen to the tainted one!_ Timber called, her whinny cutting through the dark like a knife. Others echoed their sister's sentiment with much snapping of teeth.

 _The tainted one is tricky master!_

 _Yes! Very tricky!_

 _Tainted one speaks lies!_

 _Sweet lies!_

 _Do not listen!_

 _No, do not listen!_

 _Send him away!_

 _Send him away at once master!_

 _Yes! Send him away!_

Though he could clearly hear the mares and recognize the tone of their displeasure (despite being unable to interpret anything they said), Morsoi continued to talk as if he were deaf to them.

"Leadership, then, may be a more appropriate word in this case. It more accurately, and positively, reflects your goals."

"Which are?" she prodded, ignoring the subtle jab. Morsoi could cut spirits deeply with his words when the right mood struck him, driving them to fury or despair or madness as he pleased, yet this particular attempt was scarcely more than a prickle on the nerves, easily disregarded.

He replied, "To see the spirit world remade. Not undone, as some might think; merely reorganized and made more efficient. Lofty goals, I must say, though hardly unexpected from you, a spirit who as a very young mortal deigned to destroy the Dybbukol _._ "

It was strange, Cassandra thought idly as she entered the globe room. Not so very long-ago spirits were too terrified to speak that creature's name, and now they tossed it around in her presence like confetti. Morsoi was allowed to, she supposed, having played a part in its destruction, but so many others whom she'd never met as a human and who hadn't given two shits about Pitch felt the unnecessary need to bring it up constantly. She did not want to be reminded of that night. Not of the spirit who lost his life nor of the life she herself was forced to leave behind.

She ascended the dais that held her globe and proceeded to a charcoal gray two-seater sofa. Cassandra knew the peculiar choice of furniture raised quite a few eyebrows, but that was sort of the point. For one thing, it was the complete opposite of the carved stone throne Pitch was rumored to have kept, which efficiently illustrated that she was _not_ her predecessor despite being locked into the same role. For another, it was infinitely more comfortable, and Cassandra just wasn't going to sacrifice comfort in order to put on false airs for spirits she didn't even like.

As for those who thought less of her because of her sofa, well…good. Let them underestimate her. If something as stupid as casual seating in her reception hall could get under their skin then they were all going to be supremely shocked by what she was about to pull off.

When Cassandra sat down, she purposefully placed herself in the middle with her arms extended across the back and her legs crossed before her. She did not invite Morsoi to join her, and such position prevented him from inviting himself—not that he seemed to mind. Watching him closely, Cassandra thought Morsoi actually looked amused at her daring.

"The only major problems I foresee with your plan are the Guardians and the Adjudicating Eye," he continued, speaking softly from his place on the uppermost step of the dais. "They are all rather attached to their current positions of power. Though I believe you have already taken steps to…dissuade one of these from interfering."

She raised a single eyebrow. Morsoi smiled upon seeing it.

"Though I know not how you managed it," he allowed, "I have been here in your realm enough times to notice the significant lack of Watchful Eyes. However did you manage to convince Issitoq to keep them out?"

Rather than answer directly, Cassandra told him, "Not without consequences."

Indeed, the Adjudicating Eye had been most irate when Cassandra approached him with her request. Initially she had tried to argue that even the lowest of humans were guaranteed certain levels of privacy, particularly within the borders of their own property, only for him to coldly remind her that she was no longer human. His ire stoked her own, and the request quickly became a demand. Her realm was her sanctuary, her only home now that Barb was gone, and she would protect it at all cost.

"'Am I being accused of a crime?'" she'd demanded to know. "'Is someone filing grievance against me?'"

"'No,'" the Adjudicating Eye grudgingly admitted while tentacle-like roots twisted and rolled throughout the cavernous room.

"'Then I deserve my basic rights—I ought to retain full ability to say who is and is not allowed within my realm, for I do not want or need your servants looking over my shoulder every second of every day! What exactly are they reporting to you, hmm? What I eat? When I sleep? What I wear and how often I bathe? It cannot be much important, for I can count on my two hands with fingers to spare, the number of spirits who have been granted access in order to speak with me. You do not even watch the Guardians this much, and _they_ have actually been found guilty of crimes! Crimes enough to warrant them participants in the rite of _Mutatis Mutandis_!'"

 _That_ got under Issitoq's skin. Those roots coiled tight as a deep rumble filled the chamber, spilling dust from the ceiling and shaking the ground beneath Cassandra's feet until little pebbles rattled around her toes.

But he acquiesced. He had no choice, for he had no legal reason to deny her.

Yet.

The consequence of her victory, of course, was that Issitoq now watched her like a hawk whenever the opportunity presented itself. Anytime she left the boundaries of her realm a miniature swarm of Watchful Eyes descended upon her, reporting her every word and act back to their master. He probably knew the precise moment of every single one of her blinks. It was beyond ridiculous; such a petty response bordered on childish, but she did not raise any complaints about it. Partly because she suspected that was what Issitoq wanted her to do, but mostly due to the fact that it was not an entirely unexpected reaction on the Adjudicating Eye's part.

Truth be told, she'd been banking on it.

"I do hope you tell me one day," Morsoi was saying, drawing Cassandra from her ruminations. "I am sure it is a most fascinating tale."

"Hardly," she countered smoothly. "It is scarcely worth the telling."

Scarcely, she had said, not "isn't". Morsoi noted the difference and his smile, unbelievably, _warmed._

"I shall strive to prove myself worthy of being told."

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Cassandra deftly turned the conversation back around to him. "Why are you here, Morsoi?"

"To offer you a gift," he said at once. His eyes shone with mirth. "Have you forgotten already? My, my, I must be more distracting than I thought."

"Hardly. And you missed my point. Why are you here tonight, so soon after gallivanting all over the world with the Guardians?"

That wiped the amusement clean off his face. "You know?" he asked quietly, though the question seemed largely rhetorical. Bi-colored eyes narrowed as he regarded her with suspicion and calculation. "How is it that you know? They dare not tell and Angiti knows better than to gossip."

Though he spoke aloud, it seemed to be to himself rather than to her, and Cassandra was content to let him stew. Relatively quickly, however, the annoying smirk reappeared on Morsoi's face. "My dear Cassandra—have you been sending your mares out on excursions?"

"They have eyes and ears," was all she said in reply. Pleased as he was with himself for having "figured her out", he was uncharacteristically satisfied with that non-answer and did not question it, as he probably should have. "I know you were there, but not why, though I assume it has something to do with my gift. Your timing would be far too coincidental otherwise."

"Wise as ever," he murmured. His expression was slipping from pleased to creepy, now. Cassandra did not like it.

"It is basic common sense, not wisdom," she snapped, starting to lose patience.

"Why is it always so difficult to pay you a compliment?" he asked suddenly. "Most spirits preen under praise, basking in the attention paid to perceived aptitudes or achievements. But you…you ignore or undermine every commendation as if they hold no value to you."

"They don't. No one knows who or what I am better than I do. I don't need anyone to try and suck up to me by throwing my supposed accomplishments in my face."

His head tilted slightly to one side, like a bird examining something peculiar. "I do not know if that statement is exceptionally narcissistic or unspeakably sad."

They were not going down that road. The very idea of discussing such things with Morsoi, of all spirits, was ludicrous.

"Go away, Morsoi," she said. "Come back when you have something interesting to talk about."

"Are services from the Guardians not interesting enough?"

She paused halfway out of her seat. "What sort of services?"

Raw power oozed around him as he announced, "Whatever I desire. Provided, of course, they do not harm children or the other Guardians. They were really quite particular about that."

"How many of them granted you these services?"

"Three."

"North, the fairy, and the Pooka?" she guessed, sitting down again.

"No. North, the fairy, and Frost."

She couldn't quite hide her surprise upon hearing that. "Frost?"

"Hmm." The hum was almost a purr, one that made Cassandra want to shiver with disgust. He sounded like a distant horde of locusts whenever he did that. "Aster was already too far gone to save himself. Frost had to do the saving in his stead."

Interesting. "Are the two stipulations you mentioned the only ones?"

"Yes. Quite foolish of them, really. Desperation breeds the brashest of decisions."

Something about the way he said that grabbed Cassandra's attention. Catching her intended remark about projecting just as it neared the tip of her tongue, she instead asked suspiciously, "You would not have had anything to do with creating the circumstances that fueled said desperation, would you?"

Morsoi sighed, "Ahh, Cassandra, a master never reveals his secrets."

Which was a yes in Morsoi-speak. All else aside, Cassandra had to admit it was pretty impressive. For him to pull off such a racket he not only had to figure out a way to sicken the Guardians and their lackeys (who were all notoriously hardy when it came to common sicknesses), but also had to successfully infect them without implicating himself, otherwise Issitoq would have forced him to relinquish his right to the promised favors. Deals made under such blatantly false pretenses were cases upon which grievances were filed, after all.

"You are curious," he noted. "You want to know how I did it. Would you like to hear?"

He was clearly dying to share, otherwise he would have stuck by his "a master never tells" shtick. Cassandra told him, "Only if you are offering to tell me freely and not because you desire something of me for the telling."

"Of course not," he said, sounding (and looking) slightly insulted at the insinuation that he could be so petty. "Have I not been free and open with you in the past?"

 _Only because you think doing so will eventually turn my opinion of you to your favor,_ Cassandra thought. Morsoi was just one of those spirits—he took the notion of giving nothing freely to a whole new level. If there was no perceivable reward for him in the immediate future, that was simply because he was looking forward to something much, much further down the road. It was fascinating and frustrating in equal measure.

Getting over the perceived insult rather quickly, Morsoi moved on with telling his tale. "I may have found a quiet little hot-spring in which to sit and contemplate life…and death. It was a nice place, perfect for my experiments, though I visited only once or twice, perhaps thrice, over the past few decades. I am rather busy, what with how fragile human lives are. No one was ever there, of course, and whatever remnants of magic I felt were quite old, hardly worth mentioning, really, so it was only natural for me to assume that no one else frequented that place except myself."

"Let me guess," Cassandra said in a flat voice. "North's yetis also use it."

"However was I to know?" he asked with an overabundance of false innocence. "It is not as if they venture there often; I imagine they are almost as busy as I am, what with that slave driver they have for a master. Nor was I to know that they would be so foolish as to actually swallow the water. It is really quite hot, you know. If I'd had _any_ inkling that one of my experiments would linger in the water, or that others visited that place, or that North's yetis would be at all affected, I would have made sure to do a far better job cleaning up after myself."

Cassandra stared at him. "Issitoq knows," she said as the full scale of what Morsoi was telling her dawned upon her. "He knows about what you did but has no proof that you did it on purpose or with any ill intentions, so he cannot prove it was anything more than unfortunate accident. Even if the Guardians go to him to try and worm their way out of owing you the promised services he cannot help them."

"Not unless I confess," he said. "Which I just did, it seems. My, how good it feels to finally get that off my chest. The guilt was just _eating at me_."

His eyes were fully green now. There was not a single trace of guilt in them at all, only wicked pride and delight. Cassandra sat back against the sofa, stunned. This gift was leaps and bounds above everything else he had ever offered her, for it went far beyond the mere giving of services (which in of themselves were nothing to sneer at). It was a demonstration of Morsoi's creativity and cunning, his dedication and determination, and most of all, his daring. What the spirit of pestilence and plague had done was spit right in the face of Issitoq himself, having managed to find and openly exploit one of the biggest loopholes in the Adjudicating Eye's power:

Spirits were assumed innocent until proven guilty.

And by confessing to Cassandra what he had done, Morsoi had effectively communicated without so many words that he trusted her not to tattle.

From a spirit who trusted no one, that alone was huge.

For the first time in decades Cassandra was at a loss. She badly wanted— _needed_ —those services, for Morsoi was absolutely right when he'd said they would help her achieve her goals. But that would mean accepting his gift and all that it entailed, which of course was something she simply wasn't prepared to do. Turning him down like usual was always an option, but doing so this time would require utmost caution. The spirit of pestilence and plague may grant her license to do and say things in his presence that he would never, ever allow of anyone else, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take great offense if she refused an offering like this without very good reason. Affection only went so far when a spirit was as conceited and self-centered as Morsoi.

Pinned beneath a penetrating green stare as he eagerly awaited a response, Cassandra longed for her cloak. Its calming influence would have allowed her look at the problem objectively, free of the burden of so many conflicting emotions and desires.

"I cannot give you what you seek," she said at last. "What I require is cooperation, not devotion."

"You will have both and so much more," he promised at once. He sounded slightly breathless, as if seized by great anticipation. "Accept my gift and I will give you whatever it is you require."

She did not bother to hide her disbelief, "You would beholden yourself to me? You who believes himself stronger than all but two?"

"All but one. I could defeat Moon easily if he would but come down from his hiding place," Morsoi corrected her with a cunning smile. "I sometimes wonder if it is this fact alone which keeps him up there in seclusion."

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "The point stands. You know my goals, and you know me. I will not yield to you in anything. Yet there you stand, promising to do anything for me should I accept. Tell me why I should believe that. Tell me why you would bind yourself to one such as I for no perceivable reward."

"You do not understand your own worth if you need ask such a question," Morsoi breathed, a mere whisper of words. Before Cassandra could ask him what he meant he said in a more normal tone, "It is not as if I am offering to make myself subservient to you. I would much rather stand by your side as you achieve greatness than to ever stand apart, or worse—in competition. As to why I would offer you whatever it is you want…"

He ascended the final step of the dais before moving to stand directly before her. He was so close now Cassandra would hit him with her foot if she but tried to re-cross her legs.

"Am I not already doing precisely that in order to prove myself worthy? Why would I cease to provide for you and make you happy once we are bonded? Or do you think I have been enticing you merely for personal gain, as part of some dark plot presently unknown to you? Is that why you have been so reluctant to accept?"

When Cassandra scowled at him, he nodded slightly, as though in understanding. "I see. Such is unfortunate, but not irreversible. I assure you, Cassandra, there is no diabolical plot when it comes to you and me. All I want is for us to be together."

"Why?"

"Because you are the only one who deserves to be with me."

A plethora of Nightmare screams filled Cassandra's realm.

 _Master is_ better _than you!_

 _Much better than you!_

 _He is scum compared to you, master!_

 _Send him away!_

 _Yes! Send him away!_

 _Send the tainted one away!_

"ENOUGH!" Cassandra bellowed, and as one the mares fell silent. She rubbed the fingers of one hand against her temples as a headache threatened to bloom behind her eyes.

Morsoi stood there with an amused look on his face. "Quite opinionated, aren't they?"

"Yes." That was all she would say on the matter. Regardless of how others treated their assistants or servants Cassandra refused to deny her mares the right to speak their minds. Provided, of course, they did not grow disrespectful, which included shutting up on the rare occasion she ordered it.

When she lowered her hand again and looked up, it was to see Morsoi studying her closely. Cursing herself for showing weakness in front of him, Cassandra planted a scowl on her face and informed him as coolly as she could, "Flattered as I am by your offer, Morsoi, I cannot possibly accept. As I said—you want something I cannot give."

"Not yet," he acknowledged. "Not until you allow yourself to give it."

 _The hell does that mean?_

She didn't realize she'd voiced the thought aloud until she saw him smile. It was a far different expression from all the others he'd worn tonight, for this one was neither arrogant nor evil. It was actually almost…gentle?

Did Morsoi and gentle even belong within a hundred miles of each other? Had the world turned completely upside down in the precious few seconds Cassandra had closed her eyes?

"Do you not hear yourself speak, Cassandra?" he asked quietly. "I do. I hear everything you say to me, even if you do not hear it yourself."

"Congratulations on having ears," she snarked. He really needed to leave now, propriety and his ego be damned. He had skipped right past creepy and landed face-first in downright disturbing.

He spoke even as she summoned her shadows to send him away, neither his gaze (which was back to gray now, when had it switched back to gray?) nor his bizarrely gentle tone wavering. "Think about what I offered you. I will wait until you are ready."

With a silent snarl that was more baring of teeth and hideously-long tongue than she'd ever admit, Cassandra banished him from her realm. The instant she was alone she slumped back against her sofa.

What the flying fuck had just happened?

* * *

Morsoi was dumped rather unceremoniously on the outskirts of his own realm. He huffed quietly as he was forced to straighten his garments, but otherwise voiced no complaint. All things considered the night could have gone much worse.

The sudden and unexpected reappearance of their master had stirred up his sprites, who converged around him like hornets swarming to their queen. Long arms and fingers and semi-incorporeal bodies pressed around him as they hissed and chattered, raging against the presence of an outsider's magic so close to their territory. Morsoi allowed it for a moment or two before pushing them all away.

One sprite—the oldest, largest and most powerful—approached to chitter into his ear. Its voice sounded like dried bones rattling together in a sack, but Morsoi understood the language and responded in kind, reveling in the ability to speak it again.

 _-Not yet,-_ he said. _-She is not ready.-_

The sprite pressed close to him and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent that still clung to its master's clothes. Morsoi smirked. His servant was memorizing his beloved's smell, marking her as important, as someone to protect, not harm. No one else would ever have the honor of being in his servants' conscious like that, Morsoi would never allow it.

The sprite was also seeking something rather particular, it seemed, something that wasn't there yet if its sudden withdrawal and accompanying grimace were any indication.

 _-Not yet I said,-_ Morsoi told it, amused. _-Soon.-_

The sprite was not pleased. _-Soon,-_ it insisted. _-No waiting.-_

Morsoi frowned even as his eyes began to shine in the darkness of his realm. _-Why? Why no waiting?-_

 _-Others want. Others will take.-_

 _-No one else would dare try,-_ Morsoi snarled. _-They know she is to be mine!-_

 _-Others want. Others will take,-_ it repeated firmly.

Morsoi was furious. _-Who?!-_ he demanded. _-Who dares plot to take her from me?!-_


	3. Unlucky

Author's Note:

I live! Shocker, isn't it? I won't burden you with excuses so I'll just get down to the nitty-gritty.

Thank you so very, very much to everyone who's read this fic and left reviews. Positive feedback in any shape or form keeps me going, especially when real life bogs me down. Know that I have re-read everyone's review more than once, that is how much I love and appreciate them.

 **Demi Clayton:** I write whenever I can, which lately has not been as often as I'd like, unfortunately. But I have a lot planned for this fic, so hopefully we can all make it through to the end.

 **Guest:** I'm glad you like it so much! I love both Cassandra's and Morsoi's characters, though the latter is definitely my fave. I love to hate him, he's just that type. :)

 **Gecko:** It's good to hear you love my work, and feel free to ship whoever you want. I can't promise anything, of course, you'll just have to stick through to the end to see how it all turns out. *wink*

Apologies for the _horribly_ long wait, but please enjoy.

* * *

To say Bunny was furious when he found out what Jack had done was the understatement of the century.

"Whadya mean ya promised him a favor?!" the Pooka roared, forcing Jack to lean away with one finger stuck into his ear. For someone recovering from a near-death experience, Bunny sure was loud. "You tremendous gumby! Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

"Saved your life for one thing," Jack replied hotly. Seriously, he'd known the Pooka would be mad but this was just ridiculous. What was he getting so riled up for? It wasn't like Jack promised to give up Guardianship or anything.

(He had no intention of telling Bunnymund…or anyone for that matter…about his _other_ promise to Morsoi. He wasn't ready to swim in those particular currents, especially with how badly Bunny was taking news of the lesser of Jack's supposed evils.)

Bunny was still ranting, "My life's worth nothing— _nothing_ —compared to that, ya hear me?!"

"Are you saying you'd rather I let you die?!"

"I don't want to die, but I don't want you owing your life to Morsoi either! That's what you've done, mate! Until you repay that debt he practically owns you! He can make you do whatever the hell he wants and you won't have any right to say no!"

"He won't make me hurt you or the kids so what does it matter?! I didn't promise anything different than North or Tooth did, I don't know why you're getting so worked up over it with me!"

Bunny slumped back against his pile of pillows, looking miserable. "This is the third time, mate," he muttered in a defeated tone. "The _third._ First you had to go and pull me from the brink of being forgotten. Then you tried to sacrifice yourself to save us during the rite fiasco. Now this. When are you going to stop doing that? When are you gonna finally put your own welfare first?"

"Probably never," Jack admitted as lightheartedly as he could manage, "seeing as how it got me turned into a spirit in the first place."

Bunny flinched. Apparently, he'd forgotten about that.

"Look," Jack said, "I know in a way what I did is horrible. I get that Morsoi's going to make me rue owing him anything and then never let me live the memory down, but there wasn't any other choice. You weren't going to survive the night, Bunny, there's no doubt in my mind about that. And when it comes down to it, any favor he might ask of me is more than worth it in exchange for your life."

"You sound so sure…"

Jack puffed up a little. "Of course I'm sure. You're my friend! I would've done the same for the others, or any of the kids."

Bunny gave him a sidelong look. "I don't think you quite get just how wily Morsoi is. Of all dark spirits, he's the worst."

"He can't make me do anything irreversible, and if he tries to I'll just take it up with Issitoq."

Bunny somehow managed to look irritated and defeated simultaneously—a true accomplishment, even for the expressive Pooka. He huffed and grumbled before muttering under his breath, "Seriously, mate, what is wrong with all of you? Bad enough North and Tooth went and made fool promises, now I've got you doing it too."

"Says the one who attacked a kid to try and force her to pick him."

"Yeah, yeah. Guess we've all rubbed off on ya, haven't we?"

Jack lingered in the Warren for another hour or so before Bunny shooed him off with complaints of being fussed over like a mother hen. Though a bit rankled at first by the comparison, Jack took off with a loud whoop, apparently on his way to make mischief in Japan. Bunny waved him off, but as soon as the frost spirit was gone the Pooka's expression fell. It had been hard to feign even that small bit of good cheer, and he was quite certain that if he hadn't just endured a true near-death experience Jack would've seen right through the charade. Fortunately for all involved, the kid was still none-the-wiser.

 _Let's keep it that way, eh?_

A faint stirring of magic signaled a new arrival to the Warren. Lost in his thoughts, Bunny did not react to it. The signature was familiar, anyway, and not unexpected.

"You look like shite."

Drawn from his ruminations, Bunnymund turned his head to affix the heavily-accented spirit with a grim expression. "What news do you have?"

* * *

In the days that followed, the Guardians and their helpers were given a clean bill of health. No lives were lost, thank Manny, although a handful of Tooth's fairies were left permanently handicapped. Tooth swore up and down that she would find a way to repair their wings, while in the meantime they found things to do in and about the Palace that didn't involve globe-trotting treks for teeth. Jack took to visiting regularly to help keep the girls' spirits up. They cooed and twittered over the extra attention, and positively trilled over the special rides in his pockets and on his shoulders.

"If I ever find out Morsoi started this I'm going to turn him into an iceberg," he told Tooth one day.

"Never you mind him," she advised, breaking off mid-thought to fuss over a particularly fine tooth that was just delivered. "Isn't it gorgeous? A spectacular specimen! She brushes so well!"

She returned it to the fairy before returning her attention to Jack. "You're worried about repaying him. I understand. But that doesn't mean everything bad that happens from here on out is about him."

"How can you be so… _okay_ with this? With everything? Aren't you worried?"

Tooth hovered in silence for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin, grim line.

"Yes," she finally admitted. "I am. But I find if I think too much on it, I go crazy. Morsoi is going to do whatever he wants with the service I owe him, whenever he wants to do it, which opens up far too many possibilities for me to bother fretting about. Regardless of his reasons, I am glad my girls are healed, and that is what I focus on."

Jack nodded. He could understand that, for her reasoning was much like his own, only she seemed far more adept at the 'not worrying' part than he was. Sure, he'd played it off to Bunny like it wasn't a big deal, but in truth Jack was terrified. The more he replayed the conversation with Morsoi in his head, focusing in particular on the dark spirit's expressions throughout, Jack was starting to think he'd sworn himself to something he wouldn't be able to fulfill. What would happen to him then? What happened to a spirit when they failed to live up to their end of a sworn bargain?

Something brushed against his cheek, startling him. It was Baby Tooth, the little fairy cuddling close to his cool skin with a contended hum. Her presence and affection were a balm to his aching heart.

"Hey there," he greeted her warmly. "Causing any trouble?"

The little fairy rolled her eyes good-naturedly before flittering off with a wave.

"I'm glad they're all feeling better," Jack said.

"So am I," Tooth replied emphatically. "Anything that might be asked of me is worth risking in exchange for their lives. If I think about that, focus on that, I know I can take anything Morsoi might throw at me."

That was exactly the problem, wasn't it? The spirit of pestilence and plague never did anything by halves, so if he had demanded services of the Guardians it was because he already had plans for how to use them. Try as he might Jack just couldn't shake the feeling that they—he, North, and Tooth—were caught in some game that none of them knew they were playing, let alone understood the rules for. And if Jack knew anything, it was that no game of Morsoi's would ever end in the Guardians' favor.

* * *

The leprechaun was nothing if not practical. As such, he was not at all ashamed to admit to his various weaknesses: his small stature, for example, or the fact that while powerful in his own right his abilities were laughable compared to the powerhouses that stalked the wider world. The quickest way for anybody—spirit or human—to get into trouble was to bite off more than they could chew, so recognizing and accepting one's own limitations was not a weakness, he felt, but perhaps the greatest guarantee of staying alive.

That and a damned good bit of charisma.

Loath though he was to promote the rather stereotypical notion that the Irish were naught but flamboyant drunkards, the leprechaun had to admit that fostering it on a more personal level over the years was not without benefit. For one thing, he had developed a reputation for being the sort of jovial character one wanted at a party (you know, for cheap entertainment), which kept the invitations rolling in until he had amassed a truly stupendous cornucopia of friends and acquaintances. They, of course, were more than happy to talk his ear off, while he sucked down the drama as greedily as he did the free alcohol. Knowing whom was feuding with whom, who was guilty of spying or backstabbing, and who were becoming fast friends was all critical to the survival of lesser spirits such as he. The trick was to feign casual interest (sometimes even blatant disinterest), for the act would be given away if he came across as too eager. He nodded vacantly whenever appropriate, offered slurred sympathy as needed, but more often than not simply perched next to the punchbowl and laughed raucously whilst eavesdropping on whomever was huddled nearby.

Ah, perception. Such a wonderful, tremendously malleable thing.

Times were changing however. Despite his best efforts (and better judgment), as of late the leprechaun found himself increasingly involved in others' affairs. Most recently a good friend had approached him with some very disconcerting news, and as a friend he had agreed to help in whatever small ways he could. How could he not? He too had heard the rumors, stories shared only in the most furtive of whispers, ones which spoke of malevolent forces on the move. The dark spirits of the world had not managed a true alliance in millennia, for theirs was a subculture of distrust and hatred and backstabbing and vendettas that spanned lifetimes, not the sort of environment conducive to forming strong coalitions. If there was even a snowball's chance in hell that such a thing would happen now, well…odds were a puny little leprechaun wouldn't live to see the end of whatever bedlam _that_ madness bred.

So it was a practical decision, really. Helping Bunnymund promised at least some small guarantee of safety when everything inevitably fell apart.

And yet…despite his certainty in his decision…the leprechaun was scared. If even a hint of what he had told Bunnymund reached the wrong ears he was surely doomed.

 _It had to be done,_ he reminded himself as he landed in his realm, breathing a small sigh at the security he felt being home once more. _Doing nothing earns me no favors, and I'm gonna need every damn one I can get._

He made for his kitchen, still silently reassuring himself, intent on pouring himself a nice stiff drink to calm his nerves.

Only to find said kitchen already occupied.

He leapt into the air with a startled yelp, heart plummeting in the opposite direction to land somewhere down near his toes. "Morsoi!"

Disaster! Utter disaster! To his great shame, the leprechaun stammered nonsensically for an embarrassingly long time before he managed to choke out, "Would you like a drink?"

Morsoi just stared at him, his expression unreadable. That alone was terrifying for the poor Irish spirit, who rubbed his little hands together before chuckling nervously, "No. No, I suppose you don't. Not a lot of people accept, I must say. They find my taste of drink too strong. Though if you ask me North's idea of liquor is far more potent…"

He trailed off as he realized he was blathering, and that Morsoi still had not moved. Bastard hadn't even blinked yet.

"Why are you here?" he squeaked, dreading the answer but needing it desperately at the same time. Maybe this was just a coincidence. A horrible, heart-stopping coincidence, but even that would be better than the alternative. Maybe being the spirit of luck would save his sorry ass one more time and this would turn out to have nothing at all to do with what he'd just told Bunnymund.

Finally, _finally_ , Morsoi moved. He rose from his seat, those trice-damned unblinking gray eyes never leaving the leprechaun's face as he slowly rounded the table. Stalking closer. Sweat broke out across the leprechaun's brow, making his skin itch beneath the brim of his hat, but he didn't dare move to address it. Morsoi stopped less than a footstep away, looming over him in deadly silence. The leprechaun seriously contemplated just saying "fuck it" and making a mad dash out of there, for what little good it would do, but Morsoi spoke before he could summon the courage to actually follow through.

"Are you a fool?"

"I—huh?" he uttered stupidly.

"Are you a fool?" Morsoi repeated. The quiet tone was far from soothing; it reminded the leprechaun of a leopard's growl of anticipation right before it leapt from the brush and bit your face off.

"I don't think so," he replied, wringing his hands again. It was a struggle to meet Morsoi's penetrating stare, but he still had some small shred of dignity left.

"Really," Morsoi murmured. "If you are not a fool, why ever do you seek to incur my wrath?"

He knew.

Any sliver of hope the leprechaun had wished to cling to vanished into oblivion. A shiver traversed the length of his spine, betraying his fear. His guilt.

"I would never try to upset you, Morsoi," he whispered.

"Then tell me, little spirit of luck, why you aid those who seek to take my beloved from me."

"She isn't yours," he said, conviction replanting a small seed of strength into his voice. "She has made it clear she will not yield, refused you again and again. Dark, devious plotting is the only reason you continue to seek her hand."

In a flash of movement too swift for even a spirit to see, Morsoi had him by the throat. Slammed against the nearest wall, the leprechaun gagged, choking on the brute force being exerted against his windpipe. In desperation he summoned his magic, power gathering around him in a pale haze of green and gold. This was his realm, dammit, his own home, he ought to be most powerful here! It ought to be nothing to shove Morsoi away!

The spirit of pestilence and plague leered at him, ragged teeth—his real teeth—appearing between parted lips as the gray of his eyes slowly melded into glowing green.

"Go on," he goaded on a whisper. "Attack. Let us see how long you last against me."

"You're in my _realm,_ " the diminutive Irishman wheezed with what little indignance he could muster when he could barely breathe. He didn't understand—how could Morsoi best him here?! It was pathetic how easily the dark spirit held him at bay.

"As you entered mine when you sought to take her from me," Morsoi hissed, all vestiges of amusement gone. "Make no mistake: she _is_ mine _._ Regardless of what you say. Regardless of what anyone else thinks. Or did I not made myself perfectly clear when I destroyed Savaş for interfering?"

In his growing panic, the leprechaun threw all caution to the wind. He lashed at Morsoi again and again, striking him with all the power he could muster. It wasn't enough. Green-gold magic rolled off the spirit of pestilence and plague like rainwater off a duck's back, tangible but ultimately harmless. In a last-ditch effort the leprechaun issued a silent cry throughout the halls of his realm, begging his little friends to come and help.

None responded. Worse, after his attempted summons Morsoi chuckled wickedly.

"Do you really think they can help you now?" he asked, head cocking slightly to one side as he continued to smirk down upon his captive.

The leprechaun gasped, "What have you done?!"

"Nothing irreversible…provided you live long enough to rectify it."

They were dead. Dead and destroyed, he just knew it. He was alone now, truly alone, just him and Morsoi having this horrible conversation that could only have one possible ending.

"I didn't do anything," he whispered, shaking so uncontrollably that his hat (knocked lopsided when Morsoi grabbed him) toppled from his head to land somewhere on the floor. "I have not even gone near her."

"You have been frequenting Aster's domain as of late. Whatever for?"

"To—to give information. That's all, I swear."

"What sort of information?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I-it's nothing to do with—"

" _Tell me._ "

It was a threat, very much a threat. Deadly aura hummed in the air around them and the leprechaun had to squeeze his eyes shut as more of Morsoi's real face bled through his carefully sculpted illusion, tiny black spiders creeping out of the corners of his mouth.

"He wants to know what the others are up to. The dark ones. He's asked me to keep an eye and ear out for any new alliances between them. He's also asked me to listen for anything about Fisher, but apart from you harassing her with gifts like usual there hasn't been anything to tell." He gave a small cry as he saw, then felt, several millipedes crawl out from the sleeve of Morsoi's gripping hand onto his neck, up across his face and down the inside of his clothes. " _Please…_ " he begged, wriggling in a vain attempt to dislodge the foul creatures. "Please! I don't know anything about anyone trying to take her from you, I swear! I just listen for rumors!"

"Do you know why Aster is so determined to interfere in my courting?"

At this the leprechaun hesitated. "He…" He gave a choked gargle as Morsoi's grip tightened briefly. Eyes still tightly shut, he admitted, "If you two join forces you will be unstoppable. Everyone knows it! Aster fears what will happen if you succeed, he fears you will use Fisher then destroy her once she's served her purpose."

With a snarl Morsoi abruptly dropped him. He landed heavily on his arse before slumping over in a heap, breathing raggedly.

"So that is it, is it? _That_ is what drives him? Fear of his own weakness and some misguided desire to protect what is not his to protect!" He made a most grotesque sound, one very close to spitting, but spitting was such an un-Morsoi thing for the spirit of pestilence and plague to do the leprechaun thought perhaps it was actually something obscene uttered in a language he did not understand. The Irish spirit cowered at Morsoi's feet and silently prayed that he had not unwittingly sealed his own death warrant.

Morsoi hissed quietly between his teeth before demanding of him, "Do you wish to live, leprechaun?"

"Yes, yes of course!"

"Then I have a task for you. Do it well and all will be forgiven. Betray me and you will beg for death long before I am through exacting my revenge."


	4. Implications

Author's Note:

Many thanks to those who read and reviewed the last chapter. The positive energy keeps me going. :)

Couple of tidbits I wanted to bring up: **First** , I am by no means an expert in Australian or Irish slang, so if I made any oopsies on that front, please feel free to let me know so I can fix them. I did my best with what Google offered, but obviously the internet isn't perfect. (I do try to keep the slang to a minimum for this very reason...don't want to look like a total idiot). **Second** , I wish to point out (again) that as I've never read any of the actual literature for this fandom I have to go by what the movie and some internet research tells me regarding certain aspects of the _Guardians_ world. That being said, I could not find a single thing that gave our friend the leprechaun a name. Therefore I chose one for him. As you probably noticed last chapter I tried to avoid doing so, but constantly referring to him as just "the leprechaun" was not only growing repetitive, I found it extremely awkward in this chapter when he and Bunnymund interact. They're supposed to be friends, so it wouldn't make sense for Bunny to not refer to him by name. So, he got a name. If you don't like it or don't think it appropriate, eh. Sue me. (But not really, cause all you'd get outta me is some pocket lint, lol).

And finally, the next chapter is already drafted and waiting on the usual edits. I am hoping to have it finished and posted before Christmas, but no promises. Life likes to poop on me whenever I make plans.

Thank you for stopping by, and enjoy!

* * *

Cassandra uttered a disgusted sound. For days now—ever since Morsoi's little trip to Ireland—she'd been tracking the leprechaun's movements, but so far nothing untoward or unexpected had happened. Still, there was only one reason Morsoi would be bothering with the likes of him, and that was to harry or otherwise threaten the spirit of luck into some sort of collaboration. Which meant the leprechaun was going to be used and, with almost complete certainty, was going to eventually die.

 _The hell are you doing?_ she wondered, not for the first time. Morsoi had been acting even more unpredictable than usual these past few months. If she had to put a finger on a more precise timetable, Cassandra would say that Savaş' death was the real turning point. While there'd been no love lost between the spirit of war and…well, any other spirit, really (Savaş had been a loud, cocky mess of a brute with few supporters to speak of), for Morsoi to just up and destroy him, especially when Cassandra already had the situation well under control, was bizarre. And why had he seemed so very _proud_ of himself when he smugly presented her with Savaş' severed head? She could've easily done the deed herself had she wanted, so it wasn't as if the act somehow proved Morsoi's superiority. Up until recently she'd settled for the assumption that he'd done it to demonstrate his willingness to take risks for her sake, seeing as how spirits were generally forbidden from destroying one another under Issitoq's watchful eye.

But now…

Settling back on her couch, Cassandra chewed her lip as she watched her globe slowly spin on its pedestal. In a very short period of time Morsoi had outwitted Issitoq, coerced a hereto neutral party into helping him with whatever scheme he was currently concocting, laid a very serious attack upon the Guardians—indirectly crippling two and very nearly killing a third—and garnished through that same deceit a trio of services. Services which he'd subsequently offered to her.

 _It doesn't make sense,_ she decided. _There's no way he went through all of that, took that great a risk—twice—just to try to please me. He's playing a bigger game. He's gotten something more out of both Savaş' death and the Guardians, something he hasn't disclosed to me yet._

She needed more information. She needed to go back to her library and delve into her books, particularly the ones Morsoi had been not-so-covertly leaving around for her to find. Perhaps he'd been offering her clues all along and in her stubborn refusal to acknowledge him, she'd missed something.

But first she needed to go up to Burgess. She was due to check in on the Fisher House anyway, but with Morsoi's current antics she would have to keep an extra close eye on the children who resided there.

No one—absolutely _no one_ —would be forgiven for harming a single one of them.

Night lay calm and quiet around the town, utterly uneventful as Cassandra traversed its numerous shadows. The passage of time had not been kind to Burgess: buildings were aging and many stood empty; where there'd once been a bustling downtown there now existed a drying husk of a community center; local children were growing up and moving away to bigger, better places, while older generations were gradually dying out. Such was simply the way of things, but a great many of its remaining residents were quite bitter about it.

 _They aren't the only ones._

Coming upon the House now, Cassandra emerged from the shadows just outside its legal property line. She stood there for a time, waiting. Though it was early February, and bitingly cold, Cassandra did not shiver; Pitch Black hadn't been much affected by the cold, and as she'd discovered over the years, neither was she.

 _Cold and dark, huh._

Soon a massive black spirit with four blue-white eyes bounded out of the dark. It slowed to a trot as it approached, then came to a stop just inside the property line.

"Salvaguard," she said by way of greeting.

"Fisher." The Cadejon sat in the snow, but given his large size he still looked down upon her by several inches. Such was a lingering consequence of her having been "reborn" whilst still a twelve-year-old girl.

"How are things?"

"Well enough."

"How are the children?"

"Marceus will pass sixth grade unless he fails his finals, which is unlikely given how much time he's spent with his tutors lately. Raelynn had her baby; they're both settling in well. The coordinator was contacted last week by someone trying to help her mother track her down."

"Is the stepfather still in the house?"

"Yes."

"Then she cannot go back. Absolutely not."

"The staff are all of the same mind. The coordinator refused to even acknowledge that Raelynn was in our care but promised to keep an eye and ear out."

"Good. Any spirits causing trouble?"

The Cadejon eyed her coolly. "You would know if they were. Your power fairly smothers this place."

Cassandra shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "If I am overstepping my bounds—"

"Not at all. I was merely stating a fact. Frost was the only other who ever lingered in this town, but he visits rarely now that his Bennett friend is no more. It is not out of place, then, for you to claim this town as yours, given its close proximity to your realm." He glanced down pointedly at the meter's distance between them. "And you respect my own claims here. So there is naught to be concerned about."

It was incredibly rare for Cadejon to take on a true realm of their own. They were called wandering spirits for a reason, not even having corporeal forms until they were tasked with serving or otherwise aiding a human, just as Salvaguard did Barb for many, many years. But in their time together it seemed Salvaguard grew truly attached to Barb, and she to him, until their bond grew stronger than almost any other ever formed between a Cadejon and their human. When Barb died Salvaguard did not return to the firmament, but remained corporeal, and claimed the Fisher House as his realm. Barb had considered every single one of the wards her own children, and so Salvaguard watched over them in her stead, comforting them in animal form whenever they needed him but otherwise remaining in the shadows, guarding them from spiritual interference.

Cassandra had been welcomed in the House as a visitor for as long as Barb was alive, and had even guided many of its first residents there. But after Barb passed the Cadejon politely, but firmly, asked that she not set foot on the property again without his express permission. Cassandra hadn't liked it—in fact she'd been downright furious about it in the beginning. But after a good many weeks and some quality time pondering the situation while wearing her cloak, she realized he was right. The Cassandra Fisher House for Vulnerable Youth was his realm now, it was well within his right to decide who was and was not permitted in it. Besides, as the spirit of fear and shadow she was technically a dark spirit, so it was only natural that the Cadejon would be leery of her being there, even if he understood intellectually that she would never harm any of the children.

So she respected his wishes and remained outside the boundary, though she continued to stop by every so often to check up on things.

Salvaguard seemed to consider his next words carefully. "Morsoi was here recently. His sprites remained outside town limits."

"I know."

"He has been coming here more and more often. He visits more frequently now than Frost."

"There aren't many children left here that are not in the Fisher House, and being reminded of the Bennetts is too painful for him." Jamie Bennett had died less than a year after Barb, which had been something of a shock considering their age difference. Heart attack, the doctors said. Frost had been devastated. Sophie Bennett, who'd long forgotten the Guardians and given up trying to discover the cause of her strange "blackout", was just over seventy and recently suffered a stroke that stole her mobility and most of her memory. She lived in assisted living now, a sprawling facility located several miles from Burgess, far from Cassandra's territory.

The Cadejon's eyes narrowed. "I know well why Frost does not come. As do you. You ignore my point purposefully."

Cassandra had to stifle a sigh. "I am dealing with Morsoi."

"It is unwise to play his games. He is ancient and cunning, and selfish beyond measure."

"Tell me something I don't know." She was growing irritated now; why did everyone assume that she either didn't know what was going on or was too naïve to know how to deal with it? "What else am I to do? I tell him no and he does not listen."

"Then you are not being forceful enough. Allowing him into your realm is most unwise. It invites disaster."

"He will not harm—"

"You know this?" Salvaguard interrupted. "With utmost certainty you know this? Strange. I did not think you knew his mind so well."

Cassandra glared at him. "Do all Cadejon become snarkier with age, or just you?"

His upper lip lifted to reveal a lopsided, fang-filled grin that disappeared almost as quickly as it'd come.

"I worry for you, _niña,_ " he said with utmost seriousness."I do not fully understand Morsoi's attraction to you but you mustn't indulge it."

"Why is everyone so determined to get involved in my personal life? I know he's a bastard and that he's manipulative and egotistical. I can handle it on my own."

Salvaguard regarded her with an affect of sorrow. "You are new to the spirit world, _niña._ Approaching sixty still makes you a child in our eyes. We merely seek to look out for you as best we can."

"It is still my business."

"And one day it will become our own. Cassandra Fisher, do you know why spirit bonds are so rare? Why gift giving of the nature Morsoi desires is both revered and cause for great concern?"

Frowning a little, Cassandra shook her head.

"Gifts demonstrate both the level of one's affections and the giver's own worth. The greater or more elaborate the gift, the deeper the interest. An accepted token is permission for proper courting to commence, a process which continues until the offering—and acceptance—of the final gift."

"I already know all of _that_ ," Cassandra mumbled. She'd learned the hard way, back when Pitch tricked her into accepting the cloak as a birthday present (though of course he'd twisted the tradition quite spectacularly in order to serve his own needs).

"Yes, but naught else beyond that. You see, the exchange of what's commonly referred to as a "birthday present" signifies the spirits' mutual desire to bond. Such bonds, once formed, are irreversible. They would share each other's realms, control over their servants, everything but the magic that makes them unique as a spirit."

Something cold and disgusting touched Cassandra's heart, like the prick of a diseased fingertip.

"Such trust is rarely ever formed between spirits," Salvaguard said. "Which is why those who enter such bonds are greatly respected. It is not a decision made lightly. The shortest courting I have ever heard of spanned nearly three centuries, and even then the limited duration caused quite the stir. More so when the bond fell apart."

"What happened?"

"One spirit did not like that the other was manipulating his assistants so much. He felt they were being taken advantage of. Bickering eventually led to proper fighting and great resentment. The constant negativity soured the bond, turned it dark and twisted. In time they both fell, became dark spirits consumed by their own hatred and bitterness. Their desire for vengeance ultimately led to their destroying one another."

Salvaguard paused then, briefly. "I was not around when this happened; it was too long ago. Morsoi, however, was. Although I cannot say that I have proof of such a thing, I have been told by several individuals that he might've had a direct hand in goading the two against one another."

Proof or not, Cassandra believed it absolutely. Morsoi spoke often of doing or wanting to do vile, wretched things for the sake of entertainment; she could very easily imagine him stirring up trouble between an already troubled couple then kicking back to watch as everything went to hell.

"He holds nothing sacred," Salvaguard continued. "He values only himself. He will never care for you _niña._ Not truly. Whether he ultimately bonds with you or not will not matter to him. If he doesn't, his ceaseless harassment will serve as a continuous excuse to approach you, spy on you. If he does…"

 _Then he will own you_ hung unspoken in the air. Cassandra clenched her jaw.

"Seems like an awful lot of effort on his part."

The Cadejon's whole body jerked as though physically struck by the absurdity of her words, and he hissed between his teeth, "Have you no idea what you are?"

"No one knows who or what I am better than I do," she snapped right back. Dammit all, that was the second time in a handful of days she'd been compelled to say that. Yes, the context was a little different when she'd said it to Morsoi, but what was it with everyone assuming she didn't have any self-awareness? It was beyond aggravating.

"You know _nothing_ of yourself Cassandra Fisher if you truly believe you hold no potential value to Morsoi. As the spirit of fear and shadow you possess great power over both the human and spiritual worlds, for whether it be by too much or too little influence you could easily cast each into chaos and ruin."

"He is more than capable of the same: one unchecked pestilence could cause unfathomable decimation while a lack of sickness could lead to overpopulation and eventual hunger."

"Adults and children alike are at your mercy, and if you truly desired to you could use your legions of Nightmares to decimate the land, robbing the Guardians and their allies of believers and cowing your dark brethren into submission."

"With his sprites he has no need for my mares."

The Cadejon's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "You defend him quite vehemently. Rumors abound that the dark spirits are on the move; perhaps you and Morsoi are already allied."

"Do not be absurd," Cassandra said sharply, anger rising until the air hung heavy with shadows and dark sand. "Do you not see what is happening around you? Do you not feel it? Humanity is being suffocated in darkness. Wars and prejudices and hatred abound. Fewer and fewer children are born into happy, sufficient homes that foster innocence and belief, while more and more they are abandoned or abused, left hungry or made homeless, or live in terror of their own kin. As the spirit of fear and shadow I should _revel_ in this world but I do not. I _cannot_. I lived as that child. I lived hungry and unloved and too hateful to believe in childish fantasies because I understood far, far too early that life is not a fantasy. Life is long, and it is hard, and children need to know this but not too soon. _Not too soon._ "

She paused to draw breath, struggling to contain the rage inside of her. Control it. It would not do to lose herself here, now, in front of this spirit who merely tolerated her presence.

 _And even that is not because of me—of who I am or what I have done for him and for his wards—but because it is what Barb would have wanted._

She hated that, perhaps, more than anything else. Nearly fifty years had passed since her turning and almost nothing had changed: she was still disliked, distrusted and treated with disdain, with few exceptions, and everything she said or did was not taken at face value but measured against her interactions with or association to others. Predominantly Morsoi.

 _I hate it. I hate that they cannot see any part of me beyond my designation and the spectacle Morsoi has made of me._

Cassandra spoke between clenched teeth, "The world is imbalanced. Humanity directly reflects the state of the spirit world, and it is clearly in disarray. I will remedy that. One way or another I _will_ see it made right."

"Careful, Fisher," he warned, glancing over her shoulder at what had to be at least one Watchful Eye, but was probably a good many more.

"I will say it a hundred times to anyone who asks me. I do not want power. I do not need it. Had I needed or wanted it I would've sat back and basked in this current plight. From the very night I was reborn as a spirit I have waited and watched and hoped for change, but none has come. We now rapidly approach the point of no return where everything— _everything_ —will collapse if nothing is done. If no one else is willing to take the time or effort to see this matter addressed then I will."

That no one, not even the precious Guardians, could recognize the seriousness of the situation was infuriating. It was just like the matter with Pitch all over again: spirits either didn't notice the problem or they simply didn't care.

And this time Issitoq wasn't swooping in last minute to salvage things.

"When the time comes," she growled, "you are going to have to make a choice. I have no doubt the Guardians and their ilk will ask you to join them."

"You are planning to go to war with them?"

"No. But I know they will not take kindly to my plans, which for them will mean taking up arms against me. It's just about the only way they know how to deal with a situation that isn't completely in their control."

"I cannot make promises, _niña_. The children here must come first always."

"You know I will never hurt them."

"Perhaps not intentionally." The Cadejon sighed quietly at the look of outrage that crossed Cassandra's face but made no comment on it. "I make no promises to either side. Nor will I ever, unless it is deemed absolutely necessary. My place is here in my realm, as it should be."

Cassandra could respect that, even if she didn't like it. "I've never had cause to quarrel with you Salvaguard."

"And I sincerely hope it remains so. Although you and I are of two different kinds we care for many of the same things. _Señora_ would grieve if we were to become enemies."

He left her then, bounding away into the dark. Cassandra stared after him, heart hurting at the mention of Barb.

"' _Those spirits robbed you of your humanity; don't let them take anything else away. Don't ever disrespect or degrade yourself by bending your morals to satisfy them.'"_

She knew what she was doing was right. The Cadejon knew it too, otherwise he would have verbally eviscerated her for being a fool. But as he said, he couldn't take sides. It would put the Fisher House in danger. And if he did end up siding with the Guardians in the end, well…

Cassandra would just have to hope for the best.

Slipping into the shadows, Cassandra was halfway back to her realm when she was struck by the sudden and strangely overwhelming urge to visit someone she hadn't seen in a long, long time. She paused in the gloom of an abandoned restaurant, considering. There was no moon tonight, the thin crescent of the Man's realm hidden by a thick cover of dark storm cloud, so she could afford to linger a bit. She couldn't think of any significant reason why she had to go visit _now,_ but also couldn't come up with any reason why she couldn't go. It was bizarre, almost like a compulsion, but Cassandra could detect neither magic nor threat of danger anywhere in the vicinity.

All that talk of Barb and Frost and the Bennetts must have made her sentimental.

With a rustle and a sigh, she altered course.

The assisted living community was not quite dark despite the late hour. Hallways remained dimly lit, as per regulations, and there was an occupied nurses' station on each floor. Cassandra easily traversed the shadows along the outside of the building before slipping through to a room on the fourth floor.

Sophie Bennett, as expected, was sound asleep. Sprawled in bed with her mouth sagging open, it was impossible to miss how bone thin she was, how wrinkled and gray and just…less. Old age hadn't done her any favors, which was a shame. Although their final interactions had been soured by the loss of her belief, Sophie Bennett was one of the few humans who'd genuinely been kind to Cassandra. She hadn't treated Cassandra differently because of her bizarre family situation or her obvious cynicism, and while she _did_ try to push Cassandra into siding with the Guardians during the rite fiasco, she'd done it for reasons other than to simply protect her friends.

That and Morsoi had goaded her into it.

Cassandra's expression darkened. Although she understood why he'd done it, in her opinion it was still completely uncalled for. Adult belief was dangerous, yes, but the Bennetts never posed a threat to anyone. Morsoi had also tried to attack Barb, and undoubtedly would've succeeded if it hadn't been for Salvaguard. She was still rather irked by that, decades later, though they never spoke of it.

So no. Things _weren't_ all roses and rainbows between her and Morsoi, despite what everyone else seemed to think. She knew better than most what sort of person he was. Yet they all seemed convinced that she was just playing coy whilst secretly itching to jump headlong into his arms.

Cassandra emerged from the shadows and stepped into the room. She paused, then, blinking, as she spotted a lanky figure standing at Sophie Bennett's bedside. It wasn't unusual for nurses to check in on residents at odd hours, in fact it was part of their usual rounds, but this person wasn't wearing the facility's nursing uniform.

Stranger still, the individual's profile was oddly familiar.

"…Mr. Bennett?"

* * *

With a practiced stroke, Bunnymund added a pale blue whorl to the egg he held. He turned it this way and that, and decided it looked all right. But that didn't wipe the deep frown from his face. No amount of tinkering or painting or puttering in his garden could shake the disquieting thoughts that haunted him lately. Thoughts of Morsoi. Thoughts of Fisher and the other dark spirits, what they could be up to. Thoughts of the services Jack and Tooth and North now owed.

Thoughts of his own disturbingly close brush with death.

Bunny shuddered. Nearly being forgotten had been horrible; being reduced to a quivering little runt each May was worse. But dying slowly, achingly, twisting about semi-conscious in a pool of his own sick, was something he never _ever_ wanted to experience ever again. If he could have his choice as to how he would meet his end, Bunny hoped for a quick, glorious death in battle.

A _meaningful_ death.

Bunnymund ground his teeth together and speared his brush into the paint jar with quite a bit more force than was necessary. He hated Morsoi. _Loathed_ Morsoi. The ratbag got his jollies from tormenting people, so Bunnymund just knew he was at fault for everyone becoming ill in the first place. Now Jack and Tooth and North all owed services to him, which was probably what he'd wanted all along. But Bunny had no _proof_ , and without proof he couldn't do anything about it, which only served to make him angrier.

That Morsoi wouldn't leave Fisher alone was another sore subject, one Bunnymund's aggravated brain kept cycling back to. By all traditions the spirit of pestilence and plague ought to leave the sheila be, for she'd made it abundantly clear that she wasn't interested. Yet the wretched spirit wouldn't take no for an answer. Even when Bunnymund confronted him about it directly Morsoi just smirked and sneered and wormed his way out of the conversation. He was making a game out of courting, and a fool out of Fisher, running circles around her knowing she was too young and inexperienced to keep up, and Bunnymund couldn't stand it.

What could he do though?

The Pooka was yanked from these increasingly brooding thoughts rather abruptly when Lorcán fairly flung himself into the Warren. Breathless and sweating, the spirit of luck could barely gasp out "Come on! _Quickly!"_ His clear distress and obvious urgency prompted Bunnymund to drop his brushes and bound after him with absolutely no forethought. However, fairly quickly he started to second guess himself. He didn't know if he could handle a serious situation on his own so soon after being ill, and with the leprechaun zooming on ahead it was impossible to question him as to what was going on.

Perhaps he should've sent word to the others first.

 _Too late now._

"Up here!"

Bunny obediently opened a tunnel and followed Lorcán out onto the surface. As the tunnel closed up again, he looked around.

For miles he could see nothing but stars and sand.

"What's going on?" he demanded while every Pookan instinct screamed at him _danger! Danger_! "What's happened?"

"In there."

Bunny turned. Behind them stood the crumbling remnants of some human construct. A watchtower, perhaps, or a waypoint marking an old road that no longer existed. It was impossible to tell when all that remained was a pile of pale, wind-beaten rock half-buried in sand.

On its own it didn't look all that suspect, which only served to make the fur on the back of his neck stand on end.

"There ain't anything," he said, backing away. "There's nothing there, mate. What's going on?"

But Lorcán pointed, insistent, " _Right there_!"

Bunny blinked, peering through the dark, and finally spotted it. A small opening, only just large enough for him to fit through on all fours.

"What is it?"

"One of the dark ones wished to speak with you. Alone."

Bunny reared back in shock. " _What_? Why?"

"Don't know. Wouldn't say. I think…I think he wants to talk about what the others are up to. Strike a bargain."

Under any other circumstances the possibility of procuring a spy would've been music to Bunnymund's ears. But there was hesitance to the leprechaun's words that wasn't normally there, and his mannerisms were off.

"Are you drunk?" he asked, astounded.

"No!"

"The hell ya ain't. You're completely pissed mate!"

"Am not! If I was fluthered you'd know it. Now do ya want my help or not?"

He was being evasive, and rather defensive. Lorcán never got like that about his drinking unless someone was being derogatory about the Irish, saying they were common drunkards or the like. Bunny's suspicions grew to astronomical heights.

"Really?" he said, positively dripping skepticism. "In there?"

The leprechaun nodded vigorously, a beguiling smile on his face. Bunnymund actually might've been fooled if he hadn't known Lorcán so well, which only made the entire situation all the more disturbing. He stared, glanced up briefly at the thin sickle moon, then looked back at his friend. Lorcán just kept smiling at him, though there was a growing desperation in his eyes that couldn't be ignored.

Deciding it best to just play along for the moment, Bunnymund sighed heavily, as though reluctantly giving in. "Do ya know who it is mate?"

"He asked me not to say. Please go talk to him. It's important."

A trap was what it was. But he and Lorcán had been good friends for a long, long time, so there was no doubt in his mind the spirit of luck wouldn't have betrayed him like this unless he was in serious trouble. Such would explain why he'd turned up pissed, but also meant that if Bunny fled now, the jig would be up and there was a pretty good chance Lorcán would die.

So.

Drawing a deep breath to steel himself for whatever may come, he nodded sharply to the leprechaun and said, "Thanks mate."

"Not a problem. Good luck to you, my friend." The Irishman waved with an overabundance of false cheer before speeding off as fast as his power could propel him. Bunny's heart raced in his chest, starkly reminded of the last time Lorcán said those words to him:

"' _Goodbye, my friend, and good luck.'"_

"' _Nah, don't wish me luck, mate.'"_

"' _Why not? Who doesn't need it once in a while?'"_

"' _Once in a while, yeah, so save it for when I need it.'"_

They'd laughed about it, then, all those years ago, and Lorcán had made a point to never utter that particular farewell to Bunnymund again.

That he'd said it now only confirmed the Pooka's worst suspicions.

Drawing his boomerang, Bunnymund cautiously stepped toward the rock opening. He made a show of peering around, ears and nose twitching, as if trying to reassure himself before entering the crumbling ruin. Only when he was absolutely certain that he'd given Lorcán enough time did he spin abruptly in the sand and flee.

On his heels came a chorus of enraged screaming.


End file.
